


Love Is A Four Letter Word

by SerpentineJ



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, oh god john is so smitten
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-07
Updated: 2015-06-07
Packaged: 2018-04-03 09:22:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4095532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SerpentineJ/pseuds/SerpentineJ
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Reese hasn’t been as attached to anyone as he is to Finch in a long, long time- maybe never- and it’s… unsettling, to say the least.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love Is A Four Letter Word

**Author's Note:**

> NOTE: Guess what kind of multifandom trash I am. (Answer: the worst kind.)

“Morning, Finch.” Reese murmurs as soon as the other man walks through the door, Bear jumping up to greet him with a sloppy kiss on the side of his pant leg. Harold winces at the sudden dampness.

“Good morning, Mister Reese.” He says, hanging his long overcoat on the stand and glancing at John, who’s sitting in his chair, feet propped on the desk like he knows Harold hates, one of Harold’s books open on his lap- hydraulic engineering, it looks like, and Finch lets his eyebrow quirk upwards for a brief moment. John Reese is still full of surprises.

John looks up, blue eyes quiet, evaluating. “Do we have a new number?”

Harold pauses. “Not today, I’m afraid.”

“Crime in New York taking a day off. Well, that’s something I never thought I’d see.”

Finch drops a treat on Bear’s bed, huffing fondly as the dog licks it up, tail wagging. He’s immeasurably fond of that dog, as much as he’ll deny it. “Looks like you have the day off, Mister Reese; go to the park or something.”

John doesn’t react, just cocks his head, closing the book in his lap- his eyes are unreadable, as they often seem to be. It’s frustrating, actually, to Harold that he can’t read John nearly as well as other people. There’s always something lurking beneath the surface, belying the calm façade and the carefully neutral set of his eyebrows: people don’t notice the blankness he so carefully adopts, the mask of apathy he dons, distracted instead by the high set of his cheekbones or the smartly salt-and-pepper swoop of his hair. 

“A vacation? You shouldn’t have.”

“Wasn’t me- thank the Machine.”

Reese exhales a laugh. “Well, what do normal people do on vacation?”

Harold pauses, fingers stilling on the spine of a Kafka anthology, and turns to glance at Reese. “Are you sure I’m the best person to ask about that?”

“Well,” John began, tracing the embossed lettering on the cover of the book resting on his thighs, “I figured, if we’re both free courtesy of the Machine, you might want to get out. Grab some Thai, see a movie.”

Finch stops completely. “Is this another one of your ‘plays’, Mister Reese? Trying to get me to reveal more about my carefully concealed character?”

“You’re paranoid, Harold.” He doesn’t deny it, though.

“It’s not paranoia if it’s true, John.”

The man smiles, one of his rare, genuine ones, the one where his lips stretch and the creases at the corners of his mouth deepen and the straight line of his teeth flashes white, and Finch feels his heart stutter (though he knows, knows it’s ridiculous, how he reacts so to something as simple as a smile from a man like John Reese- killer, agent, morally gray at best.)

“Regardless,” he says, drawing his shiny black shoes off Harold’s desk- finally- and setting his book aside, “do you want to?”

Harold sighs, bending slightly to scratch Bear behind the ears. “I suppose.”

He misses the smile on John’s face grow.

~~~~~~

Harold is a strange man, Reese thinks.

A walking contradiction- absolutely brilliant, capable of building a machine like- well, The Machine- but unwanting of the limelight, the spotlight of fame most people seem to want. Obviously an intellectual, what with all the classic books and tea and his refined, expensive taste, but also a baseball aficionado and a fan of Hitchcock films- cuttingly logical and painfully awkward socially, yet thoughtful romantic with a sarcastic wit once the hard-to-crack exoskeleton is broken through.

Fascinating. A very welcome challenge to his personal interrogation techniques, at the very least.

Of course, that was before the Incident.

The Incident, as Reese has nicknamed it- he had been lying on the ridiculously soft bed in the ridiculously large apartment Finch had rented for him before their first job, staring at the ceiling, wondering- wondering about the small man with the mousy hair and the thick-framed glasses and the expensive suits and the steady gaze that seemed to know everything you’d ever done, every mistake you’d ever made. Something had changed. He’s pinpointed that moment as the catalyst for… whatever this is, his strange focus on the man who had saved him.

He had spent hours fixated on the stretch of cream drywall, analyzing the man in his head, and something in his chest tightened like it hadn’t in a long, long time.

~~~~~~

“What do you think?” John’s gaze was fixed on Harold, blue eyes and starkly black suit harshly contrasting the warm, soft décor of the restaurant. “Found this place online.”

Finch’s gaze, however, is scanning the menu. “Excellent choice, Mister Reese.” He flips the page. “I’ve been wanting to come here for a while.”

For a man as paranoid as him, Finch is remarkably good at missing the way John’s entire face crinkles up in a smile at his approval.

“Glad to hear you’re appeased.” He looks away from Harold and glances at his own menu, settling on an item and placing the laminated sheet aside. The flutter in his stomach begins to spread its wings, and Reese inwardly frowns- Finch’s ability to evoke emotion in him has been growing steadily, and it’s equal parts exciting and terrifying, the feelings that he had thought were long, long gone.

Their drinks come- Thai iced coffee for John, tea for Harold- and John spends more time sipping his drink and watching Finch talk, replying with low sentences and the occasional teasing remark, cataloging every expression the man shows, filing them in the mental file room the CIA had taught him to create.

Well, the one on Finch is more an entire cabinet than a folder.

~~~~~~

Harold has a habit of falling asleep at his desk.

It didn’t happen as frequently during the really early days, the ones where Reese didn’t know Harold’s first name or, really, anything about him besides his billionaire status and his genius- now, though, the job seems to get to Harold, and John will sometimes come into the Library with two paper cups and a box of pastries to see the man slumped over, cheek in a book, glasses cast aside or askew on his face, and it always steals his breath for a moment until he registers Harold’s back rising and falling softly and Bear snuffling dreamily in his bed on the floor, which has somehow made its way closer to Harold’s feet.

He smiles.

“Harold.” He sets the drinks down on the desk and nudges the other on the shoulder, ignoring the way his heart stutters at the murmurs Finch lets out, at the way he nuzzles deeper into the crook of his own arm before snorting awake, blinking, slightly disoriented.

“What did I tell you about knocking.” Finch sounds irritated, though John knows it’s only because he hasn’t had his caffeine. 

He smiles- he’s been doing that a lot lately, oddly enough- and opens the box of pastries he’s brought.

Harold likes the strawberry-iced ones. With sprinkles.

“You fell asleep at your desk, Finch. This isn’t your house, it’s our workplace.” John knows he’s teasing him- knows and keeps doing it anyways, on the off-chance that Finch will unknowingly reward him with a smile or a chuckle or that soft, fond look in his eyes that he gets when something is particularly amusing. It’s nothing like Harold’s Sarcastic Chuckle or his Wry Grin, as he’s taken to calling them, and it’s become a peculiarly personal mission to get that look on his face as often as possible. Reese ignores the way his stomach twists every time.

He’s been ignoring a lot lately.

Finch’s eyebrow quirks upwards. “Technically it’s my place, Mister Reese. I’m the eccentric billionaire.”

~~~~~~

“Reese?” Harold’s voice comes in through John’s earpiece, slightly tinny. “We have to move- Oswell’s coming up the stairs now.”

John glances over his shoulder, away from where he’s hurrying today’s number, Amelia, and her young daughter away from the danger- apparently she’d borrowed some money from the wrong people to stop their house from being foreclosed upon after the father took off. 

“I’m trying, Finch.” He murmurs, gesturing for the others to go down the fire escape and drawing his sidearm, “but it’s not exactly easy to get a mother and daughter out of the sixth story of a building when the stairs and elevator are blocked.”

Harold doesn’t respond for a moment. John can tell that he’s staring at his screens, eyes probably wide on the monitors: that’s something that had struck him right away about Finch, his meticulous focus, his attention to even the slightest detail. 

“Well, try harder.” The man on the other end of the wire says. “Thirty seconds, Mister Reese.”

~~~~~~

John is stoic, motionless as Harold daubs at the sluggishly bleeding wound where a bullet had grazed his arm- he feels him twitch slightly, though, as he swabs the area with hydrogen peroxide.

“Anywhere else?” Finch asks, tossing the blood-soaked gauze aside and taping a fresh patch over the now-clean injury. 

Reese looks at him, tearing his eyes away from the pitter-patter of the rain finally starting to fall from the gray New York sky, eyes soft, and isn’t that wrong? Shouldn’t Harold being the one doing the reassuring?

“No, I can take care of the others.” He rolls down his sleeve and re-cuffs it, winching nearly imperceptibly as it stretches the skin of his wound. 

Harold frowns and reaches over the table to get another pack of gauze. “Nonsense. Here, take off your shirt.”

John sighs but doesn’t protest, unbuttoning the bloodstained linen and shrugging it off his shoulders, and Finch’s lips pinch the slightest bit in displeasure at the map of scars littering the other’s skin- he doesn’t like thinking about John in pain, no matter when or where. 

“You were stabbed?” Harold’s eyebrows furrow, touching the incision with the tips of his fingers. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“No big deal.” Reese looks away. 

Finch doesn’t know what to do- doesn’t know what to say, where to put his hands besides using them to sanitize the cut, wiping away blood and grime and bandaging it, and he wishes he could more clearly convey the emotions stringing themselves through his heart and his head, this anomaly in his code that he can’t quite diagnose. 

‘Be more careful.’ An admonishment, which doesn’t translate his… feelings sufficiently.

‘I’m fond of you.’ Too impersonal.

‘I care about you.’ Probably the closest he’s gotten so fare to finding a phrase that can express him- not untrue, but it doesn’t quite reach deep enough.

He refuses to think past that.

~~~~~~

“I love you, John.”

Reese makes a point of smiling, teeth flashing, before responding. “I love you too, Zoe.”

He cuts off the call and turns back to Donald, sliding his phone back in his pocket before he leans forwards. “Sorry about that- the wife’s a little clingy.”

“Ah, no problem.” The brunet man laughs, and Finch scowls on the other end of his earpiece. “Women, right?”

“You know what women are like.” John smirks, though from the tone of his voice Harold can tell that he would like nothing better than to punch the man in the face. “You married?”

Donald Ferro, the latest number, grins. “Yeah.”

Finch speaks from the Library. “Mister Reese, if you could make haste? Ms. Morgan’s already secured an invitation to the ballet from Mrs. Ferro.”

Reese smiles.

~~~~~~

“You can’t rush into an undercover op like that, Harold.”

“I can, Mister Reese, and I will. You were indisposed and someone was in trouble.”

“You could have gotten hurt.”

“Occupational hazard.”

John is uncharacteristically angry, agitated, hands twisting, eyes dark. “You could have been killed, Harold!”

Finch doesn’t look away from his computer screen, scanning down a file that’s pulled up on his monitor: he refuses to spare Reese a glance. 

“We are both in constant danger, John. There’s no use getting worked up over a close call- one compared to the many you have been through, I might add.”

Reese scowls. “That’s different- I have training, shoot weapons, go to the gym on a regular basis. I’m sorry, Finch, but with your condition, you’re not the best suited to field work, and you put yourself in danger!”

Harold looks up at that. “Mister Reese, I told you when we began this… arrangement that it was more than likely that we would both end up dead.”

“I know!” John’s raised his voice- he rarely does that. “But, Harold, if we do go down, I have every intention of being there with you, and I’ll take every damn bullet I can before you get hit once.” He stops pacing and looks directly at Finch. “If it comes down to it, I’ll die a thousand deaths if it makes sure you stay safe, Harold, and I swear, you’re not dying before me. Not if I can help it.”

Finch can’t look away. His eyes are wide, blue-green behind his glasses, and the tremors in his hands start to manifest.

“Why?” He asks after several moments, just as the silence is beginning to feel tight, strained. “Why would you…”

John laughs, but it’s not humorous at all- it’s broken, the death rattle of denial. It’s as though, he thinks, Harold doesn’t know how important he is. To the world, to the work… to their friends…

To him.

“Because I care about you, Harold.” He finally says, sitting down in a chair beside the other man, and Finch can see John’s defences come down, brick by brick. “I care about you… very much, and I’ll be damned if I let anything happen to you.”

John looks up, and there’s something painful in his eyes- something desperate and aching, and Finch can feel something twist deep in the pit of his stomach. 

Their faces are very close together.

“Harold.” Reese whispers, and the other man can feel his breath ghost across his lips.

They kiss, lips meshed, soft and Harold can taste yearning and sorrow, the wetness of what seem like tears dampening his cheeks- it feels like something is filling the pit in his chest until he’s choking with it, and John’s hands come up to clutch his upper arms like he’s drowning.

“John.” Harold whispers. “John, it’s alright. I’m fine.”

John rests his forehead to Harold’s and laughs, breathless, tears already drying on his cheeks.

**Author's Note:**

> Comment?
> 
> [I'm on Tumblr!](http://serpentinej.tumblr.com)


End file.
